He jerked, almost as if she had physically hit him, but before he could respond, she shut the door and ran up the marble staircase to her bedchambers. She had a great deal to consider.
Not the least of which was the horrifying knowledge that she was about to become the Duke of Huntley’s fiancée.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER BRIANNA FLOUNCED FROM the library, Edmond found himself pacing the marble floor with short, restless steps. Why the hell did he allow the chit to stir his temper? He did, after all, have her completely at his mercy. No matter how much she might squawk and squeal, she had no choice but to obey his commands or leave his protection, something she was clearly loath to do at this point. It was ridiculous to be ruffled by her sharp-edged tongue.
It was sheer willpower that kept him in the library as she stormed from the room. He wanted to tame the damnable she-devil until she admitted that he was her master. And the best method of accomplishing such a feat was to have her flat on her back in his bed.
Mon dieu.
Brooding on the numerous ways to make Miss Quinn his devoted, satisfied slave, Edmond was actually relieved when a footman appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a thin, nondescript gentleman with lank gray hair and the sort of bland face that was easily forgettable.
In his modest cravat and plain dark suit that was a shade too large for his body, the man might have been a banker, a lawyer or one of those endless merchants who scurried about London.
Certainly, he did not make one think of a highly reputable Bow Street Runner.
“Ah, Chesterfield.” Edmond smoothed his expression with a practiced ease, giving the hovering servant a faint nod to stop him backing from the room. “Welcome.”
“Your Grace.” The man performed a surprisingly graceful bow. Edmond arched a brow, realizing that, in a more elegantly cut suit and with his hair more fashionably styled, the man could easily move through the streets of Mayfair. Even his voice was carefully cultured, although he could no doubt sound like a common chimneysweep if he chose. What finer talent
for a Runner than being able to move through the lowest to the highest ranks of society without attracting attention? He could use such a man in his Russian network. “May I say this is a true honor.”
“Please, have a seat.” Edmond waved a hand toward a Venetian giltwood chair, waiting for Chesterfield to take his seat before taking his own place behind the desk. “Brandy? Or perhaps you prefer whiskey?”
“Thank you, no. I never touch strong spirits.”
“A teetotaler?”
“Just a man who prefers to keep his wits sharp and his lips shut, neither of which are possible with a belly full of the devil’s brew.”
Leaning back in his seat, Edmond smiled. “I see that you are indeed precisely the man I need.”
“May I ask how you came to know my name?”
“I wrote to Liverpool before arriving in London requesting his assistance in discovering a suitable employee. He assured me that you are not only the finest that Bow Street has to offer, but that you possess an admirable ability to keep your own counsel.”
“Very kind of his lordship,” Chesterfield murmured.
Edmond gave a bark of laughter. “Liverpool is rarely a kind man, but he is remarkably shrewd, and for the most part, a wise judge of character. Which is why I requested that you meet with me.”
At last the Runner allowed a faint hint of curiosity to touch his bland features.
“How may I be of service?”
“First I wish to impress upon you the delicacy of the situation.” He caught and held Chesterfield’s gaze, the warning in his voice unmistakable. “It cannot be discovered that I hired you.”
Chesterfield did not wilt, nor did he attempt to stammer a nervous assurance as many would beneath Edmond’s stern gaze. Instead he offered a somber nod of his head.
“I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that there will not be a soul who will ever know we have crossed paths.”
“It may be necessary for you to hire additional companions to assist you in my task. I do not wish my name to be involved.”
Again Chesterfield nodded. “I can call upon several associates who I have known for years. They know better than to attempt to discover who my current employer is.”
“Good.” Satisfied that Chesterfield was precisely the man needed for the job, Edmond opened the top door of his desk and removed a miniature painting of Howard Summerville. It had been a gift to Stefan from the ridiculous buffoon the previous Christmas. With a smooth motion, he pushed the miniature across the desk. “Take a good look at this gentleman.”
Leaning forward, Chesterfield studied the painting for less than half a beat.